


Abelas

by Dickeybbqpit



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Loss, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-14 15:25:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18479023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dickeybbqpit/pseuds/Dickeybbqpit
Summary: The source of Inquisitor Lavellan’s sorrow. At the hands of her beloved, he thinks.





	Abelas

"I thought you should know," Cullen concludes. Eyes somber and downcast, he glares more sharply into the war table than the engraved daggers brutally splicing the surface.

His colleagues scan the terrible report and his hands quake—oh, he wishes they would stop—once, twice, three times with a heavier heart each second Josephine’s expression grows more horrified. There is a weight compressing his chest, which seems so counterintuitive to the rapid blood flow in his ears and the violent thread of his pulse. He wants to throw his gauntlets in a fit of rage, watch his sword snap against the stone wall, fling curses at the possessed nobles of Wycome and the Maker himself for the death of the innocent and the virtuous on His hands. 

The Fereldan people—and Cullen in particular—live and die by their word. 

His own suddenly means nothing under a broken vow. 

Looming beside his friends and colleagues, he fears he might suddenly match the tears swelling in Josephine’s eyes. Not for himself, but for his lover, because Cullen knows this formal letter of apology will hurt her most of all.

Dignity and professionalism, though crumpling by the moment, win control of the display on his face. Barely. His back straightens mechanically.

Only because a decision must be made.

A decision he fears will snuff out the delightfully earthy warmth which clings to Ellana even in the face of her greatest strife. It is a rare, special person who can carry out the difficult decisions of the world without losing an ounce of determination, who weighs each judgement so precisely in her mind and favors forgiveness, who walks first into the line of fire, who is so devoted to her friends when the world is all but ending. 

Ellana could so simply choose to ignore them all, but the Inquisitor is a special person.

"Would you like me to inform Inquisitor Lavellan?" Josephine inquires shakily, already scribbling notes to be delivered to allied noble houses surrounding Wycome. 

Indeed, Cullen thinks, she must be sure the Inquisition has an accurate tally of casualties.

Leliana's head snaps up for the first time since Cullen sprung the news upon them. Guilt flashes crinkles the feint lines around her eyes, and Cullen wonders if she already knew.

Leliana is a master of passivity to most—even without those ridiculous Orlesian masks. Now Cullen realizes she wears her hood so low because she still cannot completely erase the emotions from her face. In an instant, he sees the disappointment, frustration, and protectiveness—a threat to Cullen at the mere suggestion he allow Josephine to bear even an ounce of this shame and burden.

Cullen requires no such encouragement. "No, this was my failure. My responsibility.”

"How very ominous and uncomfortable," a voice in the doorway jests.

As much as her presence floods the atmosphere with renewed tension, Cullen wants to imprint this Ellana in her mind forever: an unknowing curl around the corner of her lips, funny—oh, so darkly, innappropriately funny at times. How Cullen had been forced to keep his hand before his face for hours over the sentencing of Duchess Florianne's skull to community theater—and so mesmerizing my beautiful.

"One of you, do say something, or I'll feel most unwelcome. If that isn't already apparent,” Ellana says.

It is only then Cullen realizes all of them are glued dumbly to the floor.

"Inquisitor," Leliana greets first with the semblance of pleasantry. "My agents report they have successfully planted Three-Eyes' devices on Raider ships. Their admiral quickly mistook them for Venatori magic, and the armada are now keeping enemy vessels busy. Three-Eyes also sends his compliments."

Ellana's shoulders slack and her lips loosen their purse, eased slightly by her spymaster’s report. 

Gambling against pirates catching sight of Inquisition scouts in disguise was a risk, but the similarity of Ellana and Leliana’s tactical minds is a striking puzzle to be proud of. If terrifying. 

Cullen knows Ellana takes his own advice to heart, hangs onto her advisors’ every word—the Inquisitor trusts all of her advisors in one capacity or another.

It is with Leliana, however, whom she shares her knack for closed-door subterfuge and sabotage.

"Good," the elf says. She taps a delicate her chin in thought, pale eyes scouring the map. "Do you think the Raiders will ever uncover the truth?"

"Tis unlikely, no? For now, their focus lies solely on eliminating Corypheus' naval arm. If they do ever take the time to examine the gears more closely, I do not believe we would bear much resentment for it. Pirates value their independence, we simply enabled them."

Leliana's tactics are subtle and direct. Clean when possible. Messy only by necessity. Surprise is her speciality.

Josephine does her best to use words and words alone. Words filled with grace and charm. Sometimes quiet, soft, and gentle. Sometimes sharp, forceful, and threatening. It is a bard's weapon, but never the knife in the night. Such is how she informs the Inquisitor of her successful prodding at the clerics to cease and desist their pursuit of finding fault with the University of Orlais and their encouragement of liberal thinking amongst the youth.

Cullen knows he can be much more like a man who takes a hammer to a nail for each problem. Straightforward and blunt. With his military prowess so forceful and swift, several months ago. 

Except his withdrawn gentleness arises, and it is with a soft voice and sympathetic eyes that he turns in his report to Inquisitor. He shoves that terrible letter across the war table. Distaste is set in his clenched jaw and on his tongue, and he pries his fingers away with a brimming sadness in his shoulders.

Ellana's large eyes go round at the seal and her hands freeze at her sides. She stares at the parchment as though it may burn her, and it is obvious she suspects its contents. 

It was she who ordered her forces into the Free Marches. She who marched on Wycome twice to protect those who lived in and around the city: humans, elves, and dwarves alike. And it was she who knew the crazed nobles suffered red lyrium withdrawal that would send them into a paranoid fervor.

They all know.

Cullen loathes his lacked patience for council when it came to protecting Wycome and Clan Lavellan.

"I'm sorry," the commander whispers.

"Tell Lieutenant Chambreterre to withdraw, Cullen.“ Inquisitor Lavellan throws about orders with a strain that unnerves him. The words roll bitterly off her tongue. She avoids eye contact with all of her advisors. "Commend her service and aptitude, and make it clear the Inquisition appreciates her efforts even under the loss of the city and the Dalish. They did their duty. As did you all. Now, I think that's about as much business I can handle for one evening. Please"—a quiver in her bottom lip—"excuse me."

Leliana's farewell shapes a title, filled with respect and resolve. Josephine’s twists a worried name and outstretched hand to offer comfort. 

It falls on empty space. 

Ellana is out the door in an instant.

Cullen unceremoniously finds himself vaulting around the War Table and trailing behind in an unspoken—and perhaps unwelcome—beck and call, reports haphazardly flung to the floor.

Willpower alone forces him not to outright give chase through the great hall where esteemed guests from across Thedas lurk, sip on wine, and gossip amongst themselves.

The Inquisitor is quick and nimble, and her long legs take great strides past them.

They take offense.

"Was that the Inquisitor?" one Orlesian voice hisses. "She did not even stop to visit with us."

"And Commander Rutherford," another notes conspiratorially. “No wonder. The rumors must be true if they're both retiring to the Inquisitor's chambers."

Cullen keeps his eyes straight on Ellana's retreating form, but feels his cheeks burn dark. The presumption, to suggest . . .. He has not . . .. They have been more than capable of occupying their time spent together appropriately. Cullen has been a perfect gentleman.

"Yes, please do forgive the Inquisitor and the commander for not taking the time out of their hectic schedules to spend their one moment of freedom with you gentlemen,” Lord Pavus huffs. He lounges back in his chair at the edge of the dining table, haughty and delightfully arrogant, taking in every individual who enters the massive room. "Comte, have you visited the tailor since you've been at Skyhold? I'm sure he could let that vest out for you."

Cullen makes a mental note to let Dorian win the pot during their next game.

Ellana slips through the slightest of openings to ascend her tower, but leaves the door ajar just so for Cullen to catch it.

The commander has seen the inside of Inquisitor Lavellan's chambers on few occasions, but hardly long enough to take in the sight of it. 

The pulled curtains provide dashing views of the moon and stars, flooding in a light that rivals that emitting from the fireplace. The flames are alive and well by the care of castle servants to keep the Inquisitor's room warm—a luxury Ellana once expressed an embarrassed gratitude to Josephine for. Alas an oasis of privacy in a room so very meant to reflect the nature of its occupant must feel like the most foreign place in Thedas for the Dalish elf who is the last of her clan.

Said occupant spreads her arms and legs wide and leans heavily against her desk. Her breathes are quick, sharp, and cause her shoulders to rise and fall with unnatural haste. The sound is piercingly uneven. When she begins to sway, Cullen flies into action. He snatches his lover tightly against his chest, cushioning Ellana's descent when her knees buckle. With careful hands guides her to the buffed wooden planks of the floor.

When his own flair of panic ebbs away, Cullen discovers Ellana's eyes open and dry. Beads of cold perspiration dot her forehead and all color has drained from her face. Her expression contorts as her body quakes violently in Cullen’s arms, and she clutches wildly at left chest as though it pains her.

"I'm sorry," she stutters between wheezes. “My hands and feet became . . . very numb."

"Deep breathes. In through your nose, out through your mouth," Cullen shushes her just like Mia had the time he’d fallen off the railing in the barn. Just like he’s had coached himself behind the barrier in the tower . . . . After a moment, he brushes Ellana's bangs back and commends, "At least you made it all the way up the stairs. Congratulate yourself.”

He earns a hollow laugh but nothing more, aside from the awful sound of heartbreak on the wind. The elf simply shakes in his arms.

He wants to apologize, to grovel in shame. 

It will do her no good.

So, he hums to drown it out instead. Old songs.

One, a Chasind chant which—with dance—tells the tale of a fallen young dragon hunter and the general who loved her even after death. It is sad and softly beautiful. And he prays it will not be any fate of theirs. 

Another, a sailor's hymn he learned by the lake back home. Chanted by men and women with sun and wind-whipped faces who—with calloused hands—tethered ropes, strung up sails, and unloaded boxes of treasure from across where the eye could no longer see. A blessing and promise of adventure on the sea with roots from around the world and so distinctly pirate.

And the last, a lullaby, sung by the Dalish boy in the gardens one crisp, lonely evening.

"My father . . . and the keeper . . . that's their favorite," Ellana whispers, delivering a gentle squeeze to Cullen’s arm.

Limp with exhaustion, head in his lap, Cullen does not try to move his lover anywhere. He will gladly sit upright with his back against an uncomfortable, hard wooden fixture if it means peace for Ellana. However much is truly possible.

Cullen’s ungloved fingers run delicate circles up and down Ellana's spine, gently scratching between her shoulders, smoothing out the disheveled vest. He pulls her close. Loosely enough for her to catch her breath, tight enough to never really let her go.

“Tell me about them,” he whispers in a way that makes the elf sink a little bit deeper into him.

Ellana is quiet for so long. Cullen does not press for answers even though he is absolutely certain Ellana has not fallen asleep. Despite the obviously hypnotizing lull of his fingers in her hair.

She parts and closes her full lips a few times, but no fragment of sound or memory is pieced aloud.

Finally, long past the time Cullen relinquishes hope of a response, Ellana tells him of all the hands that once braided her hair.

She speaks first of her father and his artistic inclinations. Softer, gentler than any other as he hummed ancient lullabies with such a sweet voice even the halla would come to listen. He taught all of his children music.

Arlen, the youngest, truly had his vocal prowess.

It was never Ellana's voice to inherit anyways, she says.

She still does not know the alienage elves from whom she earned her pale eyes, bronze skin, and golden hair. But she wants to believe she inherited Talwen's ability to love.

And her mother's sense of justice.

Saoirse was nothing if not fair, Ellana tells Cullen in sparse words. Level-headed and perhaps the wisest of all Lavellan.

Meera, her elder sister, was their mother’s spitting image. Neither emotion nor bias could sway her. Not even when a few of the older apprentices had sneered and called Ellana a flat-ear as a newcomer. Meera had only hung back and allowed Ellana to prove her worth with a bow. 

Cullen relishes the pride in her voice from the day she won their approval, and a bittersweet gratitude to her sister for allowing her to come into her own.

Ellana claims she will miss them in time.

For now the wound is too fresh to understand, and has only been a dull homesickness up until this evening.

Children expect their parents to pass on at some point. Such is the unfortunate law of time and age.

Except, no one ever expects the mortality of their siblings.

She says it was never meant to be because life becomes very difficult to imagine without the idea of their complete companionship. And now, Ellana realizes it is a much more painful reality.

"I always knew my parents would die one day," Ellana whispers. Her voice is so devoid of reality, Cullen hardly recognizes it. "My sister and brother, though . . . . I thought I would—. It was always supposed to be me.”

Cullen’s fingers tighten amidst their silent dance, bitten by Ellana’s casual admission. 

He knows he would require the same should the death have been any of his own siblings. Alas, even after the Blight, he doubts he would ever lose them all in one blow. He does not envy Ellana whose eyes are hollow and distant.

Somewhere in his mind, Cullen makes a mental note to write Mia and tell her that he loves her even in his ‘irritating silence.’

Ellana says no more. He pulls her head back once to stare up at Cullen with a fire and flurry of restrained thoughts and feelings that are so frustratingly hard to read, and opens her mouth only to bite down on her full bottom lip.

Whatever words are lost on Ellana's carefully precise tongue, Cullen does the impossible and tries not to fret over them. Instead, he places long kisses against her fingertips and breathes in the scent of pine and winter clawing against the paned glass, and hopes tomorrow brings sunshine and rain.


End file.
